


tell me one thing (you will remember about me)

by JessesGirl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Evil Couples Can Get Laid Too, F/M, Missing Scene, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25806946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessesGirl/pseuds/JessesGirl
Summary: If Vanessa notices he’s shaking – and she must, he’s sure – she doesn’t say anything, and she seems content to stay where she is: pressed close against his side, her fingers intertwined with his.She is most definitely not doing any of the things that he feels fairly certain a sensible person probably ought to do when confronted with the information that the man they’re dating is, in fact, a murderer, in addition to being a generally disreputable individual and crime lord.
Relationships: Vanessa Marianna Fisk/Wilson Fisk
Kudos: 14





	tell me one thing (you will remember about me)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the "Shadows in the Glass" missing scene that has lived in my brain for like four years. Sorry not sorry in advance, and I deeply hope someone out there still misses these crazy villains and their epic love.

They stand in front of the windows and watch the storm roll in, while Wilson Fisk calmly and quietly has a panic attack for the first time since he was a child.

He assumes this is the kind of thing that happens when you randomly decide to tell the woman you think might be the love of your life your darkest, most horrifying secret, but he’s not really sure. He doesn’t have a tremendous amount of experience in this area.

If Vanessa notices he’s shaking – and she must, he’s sure – she doesn’t say anything, and she seems content to stay where she is: pressed close against his side, her fingers intertwined with his.

She is most definitely _not_ doing any of the things that he feels fairly certain a sensible person probably ought to do when confronted with the information that the man they’re dating is, in fact, _a murderer_ , in addition to being a generally disreputable individual and crime lord.

Instead, she is _staying_ and _holding his hand_ , and she hasn't complained _once_ about how it's been at least a half-hour since they've moved at all when she's wearing a pair of shoes that look like particularly beautiful torture devices. 

He doesn't know if what he told her tonight is any worse than the things he's told her before - in the spirit of complete honesty, he's told her rather a lot of fairly terrible things. (He _does_ a lot of fairly terrible things.) It feels like it ought to be, if only because what kind of person kills their own father _besides_ someone that Vanessa ought to run very, very far away from? 

She has never flinched from who he is, though. Not once, no matter what he’s told her, and he wishes he knew what on God’s earth Vanessa could possibly see in him that could make any of this worth it. Maybe she’s right and he’s not a monster – and _oh_ how he hopes that’s true – but he doesn’t think that makes him a good man.

She makes him _want_ to be, though.

“Still with me?” Vanessa eventually asks, quietly. Her thumb started gently rubbing circles over his knuckles a while ago and it's pathetic how much such a small gesture is helping.

“Yes,” he says, but it’s a shakier response than he wants it to be. 

“It’s alright,” she says easily, and there's _such_ affection in her voice. "We don't have anywhere special we have to be." 

She says it like the _we_ is a forgone conclusion, like everything that has happened tonight hasn’t been incredibly crazy, like whatever happens after this, they’re in it together. Still. 

He finally looks down at her, and her expression is warm and soft, and…something else he’s afraid to even try and name. It makes his heart clench painfully in his chest.

He’s kissing her before he even knows he’s going to do it, licking into her mouth and tangling the fingers of his free hand into her hair. Vanessa whimpers, suddenly clutching at the lapels of his jacket to keep her balance, and the desperate noise she makes seems to reverberate through his whole body all at once.

He pulls her roughly against him and kisses her harder, clutching at her so tightly he’s pretty sure he’s leaving bruises. He kisses her until he can’t breathe, until he wonders if it’s possible to asphyxiate oneself via another person.

He lets her go only long enough to suck in a gasp of air, once it becomes obvious that he sort of has to. But her mouth chases after his almost immediately, and then they’re kissing again, deep and desperate.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he finally rasps. He feels dizzy. He feels _drunk_. 

“Please don’t stop,” Vanessa pants against his mouth. “Wilson, _please_.”

The specifics get kind of blurry after that. 

He has no idea how they make it to the bedroom. He wants to believe that he swept Vanessa into his arms and carried her, if only because that seems generally more romantic and dashing than stumbling blindly into every upright surface in the penthouse because he can’t stop kissing her, which is probably what actually happened.

In the end, it doesn’t really matter. Because the next thing he knows they’re in his bed and he’s struggling comically with the zipper on the back of her dress while still trying to remember how to breathe as she tugs his belt off. 

They haven’t done this yet – though it’s been a near thing a couple of times, including one shamefully embarrassing incident involving the backseat of a car on the way home from the opera, which he assumes that _someday_ he’ll be able to think about without blushing. 

And, for the record, it’s not that he hasn’t _wanted to_ – he wants Vanessa so badly it _hurts_ sometimes – it’s just, he wants to get this ( _them)_ right more, and he’s been so afraid he’s going to fuck everything up by virtue of something he says or does or just his general personality. 

Wilson Fisk has never been particularly suave with women in this way – he’s pretty much always been as anxious about sex as he is about every other aspect of dating. He’s not inexperienced – money and power tend to make even the most awkward man appealing enough for a great many women – but he’s not sure that even the most generous characterization of those previous encounters could be much more than perfunctory.

This is different. Very, very different.

Because Vanessa, it seems, wants him anyway. _Really_ wants him, despite the fact that he’s socially deficient and a criminal, even though there’s no way he’s ever going to deserve her, or be good enough for her, or even really be able to articulate all the ways his life is better for having her in it. 

But she is apparently as unfazed by his many shortcomings as a person as she is by his frankly pathetic attempts at seduction. Vanessa just laughs and teases and kisses him through every awkward moment, pushing his shirt off and wrapping herself around him and gently directing his movements. And, somehow, none of this makes him feel self-conscious or embarrassed, only profoundly, stupidly happy.

He slowly peels her out of that white dress, a process which immediately sears itself into his fantasies for _the rest of his life_ – she’s never going to be able to wear this anywhere in public with him ever again, probably – and Vanessa looks so beautiful he actually stops breathing for a second.

She also looks _extremely_ impatient, and somehow that’s what melts his nerves away completely. He’s smiling as he dips his head to trail kisses down her neck, and it’s a positively _filthy_ grin by the time he’s nuzzling against her breasts and she’s moaning breathily above him.

He slides a hand between her legs and she’s so _incredibly_ wet it makes him groan. Vanessa gasps loudly as his fingers tease against her clit, and she arches up against him, clutching at his shoulders. 

Truth be told, Wilson Fisk has thought about this moment – this sequence of moments, this _everything_ – a lot. It’s the reason that he’d been so careful about _not_ bringing Vanessa to the penthouse, because he didn’t think he could let himself have this and then watch her leave once she really understood what a monster she was with. It would have been unbearable.

But now... he has no secrets left to tell her, no dark corner left unexposed and Vanessa is _still here_. Rather enthusiastically still here, if the noises she’s making as he strokes her are any indication. 

Then they’re kissing again, and it’s messy and hot and he can’t believe that somehow he’s allowed to have this, that he gets to have _her_ , that despite every despicable, deplorable thing he’s done, Vanessa still looks at him with desire in her eyes – and love, really, if he’s honest about that thing he can’t seem to make himself say out loud.

Christ, he’s so fucking _lucky._ He’s so _lucky_ , and he can’t remember the last time he did this when it _meant_ something, and this – _she_ – means _everything_. 

He doesn’t want to wait anymore. But there’s so much he wants to say to her, that he knows he’ll never manage to get out – that she’s changed his life, that he’s going to forever mark the days by things that came before this and those that follow afterward, that he’s so in love with her it feels like touching her this way could rattle his bones apart.

Vanessa, somehow, seems to understand and leans up to kiss him again, open-mouthed and slow.

“Yes,” she mumbles between kisses. “Anything. _Everything_. With you. Yes. Always. _Yes._ ”

Blindly, he fumbles for her hand again, and their fingers interlock and cling.

He pushes inside her _excruciatingly_ slowly. Vanessa makes that needy, whimpering noise again that Wilson has already decided is his new favorite sound in the world. He has to stop and try to catch his breathing up, to think about anything except how _incredible_ she feels around him and whether he’s going to do something even _more_ hideously embarrassing than he already has, like come immediately or cry. 

But then Vanessa presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Wilson, _please_ ,” she whines softly, shifting very deliberately underneath him and wrapping her legs more firmly around his waist.

Her movement nudges him forward another couple of inches and everything goes kind of blurry again.

It is not, in all honesty, his best performance from a technical standpoint. But it doesn’t matter – everything feels _perfect_ even though his rhythm is pretty terrible and his hands are shaking and he bites down so roughly at the juncture between her neck and her shoulder at one point that there’s already a mark blooming on her skin in the dark. (And that’s turning him on, too, though he feels kind of awful about it.)

Vanessa is making these _amazing_ noises in his ear – he had never thought she’d be this loud in bed but he _loves it –_ and he has to slide a hand between them to rub a circle against her clit again because he’s somehow suddenly like two minutes from losing it completely and he is many, many things that are awful, but selfish in bed is not one of them. 

She moans his name when she comes, and that’s so hot that it’s more than enough to push him over the edge right after her, his vision going fuzzy around the edges and his face buried against her neck.

“Oh my _God_ ,” he whispers. Vanessa is still panting softly next to his ear, but he can feel her smile.

“I told you I liked your place,” she huffs breathily, and he starts laughing because he can’t help it, because this is real, and she is real, and it feels like everything has to be different now, afterward. Like _he_ is different. 

“Vanessa –“ he says, but his words die in his mouth when he looks at her, disheveled and beautiful and _his_. She smiles softly, runs her thumb over his cheek. “Me too,” she says quietly. He kisses her and tugs her close again and they stay that way, breathing together and not talking until Vanessa falls asleep.

As he does almost every other night, Wilson Fisk still has a nightmare before morning. But Vanessa’s still next to him when he wakes up, and she doesn’t stir once during his panicked gasping. Like this has happened ten thousand nights before this one. Like she is used to it. Like she belongs there. And it's what helps him fall back asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Counting Crows' "Round Here".
> 
> I operate under the general assumption that Season 1 took longer than the episodes themselves imply. (Meaning we don't go straight from the dinner date in "World on Fire" to Vanessa coming over in "Shadows in the Glass". No way do you confess murder to your SO after like two dates, is my point.)


End file.
